Wicked Hunger (9 page)

Luckily for both of us, I have a lot more control over my conscious mind than my hunger. I settle for sitting on a chair next to her bed where I can still see her clearly. At first, I don’t dare even move, but eventually, the desire to touch Ivy wins out. My fingers reach across the distance and touch a strand of her short hair. It feels like silk, slipping through my fingers and falling back to the bed with the slightest movement of my hand. A smile forms on my lips as I watch how the moonlight hitting her hair shifts and swirls each time I touch it.

There is no warning before she suddenly rolls over. Her peaceful face turns right at me, and her hand lands on mine. Her movement arouses my hunger. Every muscle in my body tenses, and I close my eyes against any further movement. The heat of her hand on mine is a constant reminder that she is only sleeping. It does so much more than that, too. The only time I’ve substantially touched her is when I grabbed her arm in the parking lot. This is so much better.

I don’t risk opening my eyes. It’s easier to pretend she can’t do anything to fulfill my hunger if I can’t see the flutter of her eyelids as she dreams, or the way her chest rises and falls with each breath. Even more, I’m glad my eyes are closed when her fingers suddenly tighten around mine. I take a deep breath and squeeze her hand lightly. I can hear her shift, pulling her hand in more tightly, but I don’t see it. My hunger reacts, bringing my other hand straight to her neck. The desire to press down and deprive her lungs of oxygen threatens to overpower me.

For the longest time, we stay like that. Hand in hand, on the verge of death, though only one of us is actually aware of it, we share the perilous night. Time seems eternal as I fight my hunger for control. Only her absolute stillness eventually gives me the edge I need to withdraw both my hands from her and sit back.

Despite my weakness, I never want to leave. I’m not like Van. I can’t imagine and pretend that one day my life will be fixed. I have no illusions that I will ever be safe enough to let someone share my life. Dreams of a wife and family do not belong to me. I won’t ever experience that side of life. Sitting next to the bed of a girl who is asleep and has no idea I’m here is the closest I will ever get to having a romantic relationship. This is it for me, and I loathe the idea of going home.

As my physical need for sleep starts overpowering everything else, my eyelids start to droop. I’m right next to a bed, but if Ivy were to wake up next to me…well, that would obviously go very badly. More likely than not, she wouldn’t wake up at all.

I have to leave. More reluctant than I can ever remember being, I stand up. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t resist Ivy in more ways than one. Careful not to disturb her, I brush my fingers against her cheek. The resurgence of my hunger the touch costs is well worth the feel of her skin against mine. The slight contact affects Ivy as well. Her frown is replaced by a smile. I can’t help doing the same as I back away, regardless of my burgeoning hunger.

The smile stays with me all the way home. My own house is dark and quiet when I arrive. I walk to my room with extra care, not wanting to wake anyone and have to explain where I was, or why I’m getting back at three in the morning. I make it all the way to my bed and lie down before the fear hits me. One second, I’m smiling like an idiot, the next, my entire body is trembling.

There was a chance, before, that I could have convinced myself to stay away from Ivy because of my hunger. After tonight, that small hope has disappeared completely. For a few precious moments, I was near her without wanting to kill her. I touched her silken skin, breathed in her scent, memorized every curve of her body. She has captured my hunger and soul alike, and I have no interest in escaping. I won’t be able to stay away. I’ll go after Ivy, and I won’t be able to stop myself from killing her.

I don’t have to wait long to see Ivy again. As soon as I pull into the parking lot, I spot her car. She didn’t drive to school with Laney. That strikes me as odd since teenage girls seem generally incapable of doing anything solo, but I push any thoughts about why that might be out of my mind. Instead, I look for a parking space. There is one at the end of the row, and one two spaces down from Ivy. I know which one I should take. Van glances over at me nervously when I pull into the one near Ivy. Her hands clench around the strap of her backpack, and I scramble to avoid having to answer any awkward questions.

“You don’t want to stop hanging out with Laney, then you better get used to seeing her,” I say.

Van looks over at me. The doubt in her eyes is hard to miss. “Are you sure this is about me?”

“Get to class, Van.”

“Zander, about last night…”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I know, but…”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it!” I snap at her.

She shrinks back and turns away from me. “I just wanted to apologize.”

“What?” I ask after taking a slow breath.

“I…I knew Ivy was going to come to class last night. I texted you to wait for me outside. Didn’t you get my text?”

“I did.”

“Then why didn’t you wait outside?”

“I did, but you were taking a long time. I got worried something was wrong.” I look over at Van, suddenly angry at her. “Why didn’t you just tell me she would be there?”

“I didn’t know if telling you she’d be there would keep you away…or make sure you did come in. I guess I should have told you either way,” Van says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

My hands finally slip from the steering wheel and fall limp at my sides. I sigh, but I don’t look over at her. My little sister sees so much. She was always the one being protected, but not anymore. “It’s okay. Thanks for stopping me.”

“Sure,” she whispers. Van’s hand moves to the door handle, but she doesn’t get out. “Ivy’s going to keep coming to the dance class. I’m pretty sure I’ll be okay with that, but I wanted to make sure you knew. Grandma can pick me up from work if you need her to. She’ll understand.”

“No,” I say a little too quickly. We turn to each other at the same time. I blanch at the worry and curiosity in Van’s gaze and struggle to explain my quick response. “Same goes for me, I guess. I have to get used to her, too.”

Van nods, but hardly seems convinced. When she doesn’t reach for the door right away, I worry she has more to say about Ivy. She does have another question, but it’s not about Ivy.

“Hey, do you remember the other day when I said I tasted something weird in the hallway?”

My fingers cinch closed around the steering wheel in panic. I would have preferred another accusing question about Ivy over this one. The effort it takes to answer her is not small. “Sure. Why?”

“The same thing happened last night at the studio.” She stares out the window pensively. “Do you have any idea what that was?”

The shake of my head is slow, grinding. “Who knows,” I manage to say. “The closer you get to your birthday, the more odd things you’ll experience. Just forget about it.”

Van’s face scrunches up, but she holds back whatever she’s thinking and opens the door.

“Don’t be late today.” I remind her. “I want to leave right after school.”

“I know, Zander. It’s Friday. You always want to get there as early as possible. I won’t be late,” Van assures me.

After that, I let her get out of the truck. As soon as the door closes, my attention redirects to the opposite side. It catches me off guard to find Ivy looking right at me. Hunger simmers along with the desire to touch her. Laney is standing next to her, and by the looks of her animated expression and waving hands, she is regaling Ivy with the tale of another klutz-induced mishap. Ivy nods at one point, but her eyes don’t leave mine. They watch me, her head tilting to one side, seeming to pierce through me. Sweat beads on my forehead. It makes no sense, but I am almost certain she can see more of me than what is visible.

The feeling passes as soon as her lips turn up in a smile. Suddenly, she is the one who looks like someone has glimpsed her true thoughts. A faint blush turns her cheeks a lighter shade of the pink in her hair. When Van reaches the pair, Ivy turns. For a few moments, I watch them walk away. Van keeps her distance, not enough to make it obvious, but enough to keep her hunger from tasting too much of Ivy. It’s only when my little sister tucks her hand behind her back that I realize she’s holding something.

The sight of the tattered bit of purple flannel makes me frown. I haven’t seen any piece of the blanket our mom made for her when she was little in years. She made one for each of us. They were made especially to help calm our hunger. Not that there is any special power imbued in them, they were just simple fabric, but they were filled with our mom’s love and compassion for her children’s curse. I haven’t seen Van’s blanket in a very long time. I sleep with mine every night, though.

When Ivy is far enough away from me, I get out of the truck, lock it up, and follow her. And that’s pretty much what I do all day. Along with her address and license plate number, I looked up her schedule. At the time, I had memorized her classes in order to avoid her as much as possible. That should still be my goal. It’s obviously not, though, when I skip my lunch hour in order to get some help on my calculus homework.

When I walk through the door, most of the eyes in the room peer up at me. I focus on my favorite teacher, and leave the rest to stare all they want. Mr. Dalton grins and gestures for me to come in.

“Zander, what brings you to my homeroom?”

“Got a minute to help me with my calc homework?” I ask.

Mr. Dalton was my trigonometry teacher last year, and aside from being a likable guy, he was one of the few teachers who believed I wasn’t just another brainless jock who expected to get passed because of my athletic abilities. First test, he nailed me for screwing up a bunch of problems. It’s not so much that I’m not smart, it’s more that I’ve got a lot going on with sports, my hunger, family issues, and such that I don’t always find time to study. The last two years have been especially hard for several reasons, and Mr. Dalton really helped pull me through it.

He gestures me over to his desk. “Of course I’ve got time. All I do in homeroom is keep the delinquents from doing anything too stupid. Isn’t that right, Arnold?”

Some pimply, angry-looking sophomore sitting by the window pops his head up long enough to glare before hunkering down in his seat even further. Mr. Dalton laughs and shakes his head. “So, what are you getting stuck on?”

“Derivatives of continuous polynomial functions. It’s just not making sense to me.”

“Who do you have his year?”

“Raeburn.”

Mr. Dalton winces. “No wonder you’re struggling. She is all theoretical, never bothers to put a problem into real world terms so kids can understand why they’re doing what they’re doing. Here, let me get a different book.”

He stands up and wanders into the tiny shared office situated between his room and the next. I really do need help with my calc homework, but the desire to turn around and scan the room for her has my foot tapping. I can’t resist. Attempting to look casual, I note each face, and am disappointed when I don’t find Ivy’s. I want to check again, but Mr. Dalton reappears with a book in hand.

“Here,” he says, “this should help.”

I stare at the book doubtfully. “This looks like a college textbook.”

“It is. Calculus for business and economics. I teach it at night over at UNM. It isn’t any harder than what you’re doing now, but it’s put into practical terms, like finding the optimal price for movie tickets. It explains why you’re finding a derivative or doing integrations.”

“That sounds great, but I’m still struggling with
how
to do it, not just why,” I argue.

Mr. Dalton shakes his head. “I worked with you all last year. You’ll understand the how better if you understand the why. Let’s go through a few problems together, and then you can try some on your own.”

I’m not convinced, but he saved me last year, and I trust him. So we get to work. The minutes pass slowly as he runs through the basic instructions for me and tries to apply them to a real situation I can understand. I won’t lie and say I latch onto it right away, but it does start to make a little more sense. He’s pointing out a small error I made when I hear the classroom door open. Instantly, I can feel her on my skin. My muscles bunch up and battle me for control.

“Hey, Zander, what are you doing here?” Ivy asks.

My tension-bound muscles make it difficult to move, but I manage to look over at her. Actually speaking takes a few seconds longer. “Just getting some help with my calculus homework.”

Do I imagine that her mouth turns down in disappointment? Was she hoping I was there to see her, or is she upset that I might still be here for a while?

“Oh, really? I’d offer to help you out, but I’m sure Mr. Dalton has it covered,” she says.

Her response surprises me enough to let me focus more on her than my hunger.

“You’ve taken calculus already?” Most kids don’t take it until their senior year, if they take it at all. I’m only taking it my junior year because I tested out of geometry when I was a freshman. Don’t ask me why shapes make much more sense to me than numbers, they just do.

Ivy shakes her head, her cheeks darkening to pink again. “No, it’s just a hobby.”

Even Mr. Dalton raises his eyebrows at that comment. Ivy blushes even deeper.

“My dad’s an actuary. He loves math. It’s super nerdy, but he used to teach me about math rather than reading me bedtime stories. I guess it kind of stuck with me. I like math, too.” She closes her eyes and bites the corner of her mouth. “Sorry, I should let you get back to work. I didn’t mean to interrupt you and admit what a dork I am.”

Ivy doesn’t wait for a response. She walks over to her desk, slides into it, and promptly puts her head down. I’m so off balance, my hunger can’t even get a good grip on me. Every conversation I have with her becomes a new exercise in odd.

“Huh,” Mr. Dalton says, “I’m going to have to pay closer attention to her homework assignments. If she really knows what she’s doing, I may recommend her for AP next year.”

I hear him, but I don’t respond. I’m still staring at Ivy’s ducked head, wishing futilely she would look up at me. It’s not until Mr. Dalton swats my shoulder that I look back at him. “What?”

His eyebrows rise expectantly. “How do you know Ivy? She just transferred here this week, and let’s face it, Mr. Social you aren’t.”

“She’s Laney’s cousin.” I don’t generally talk to people much, especially not about my family or friends, but like I said, Mr. Dalton helped me through a lot the last few years. He nods with understanding.

“You like her?” he asks.

My head starts nodding before my brain can catch up. “What? No.”

“Zander
…”

“I said no, Mr. Dalton. Don’t push me.”

He shakes his head and stares past me to Ivy. “I’m not trying to push you, Zander, but you obviously like her. Why not ask her out? She seems nice enough.”

“You know why not,” I say.

“What happened to Lisa…you can’t let that stop you from getting close to people.”

Hearing her name sends a spike of guilt and self-hatred through me. My shoulders hunch inward and I can feel myself starting to shrink away to nothingness. Mr. Dalton’s hand on my shoulder halts the inevitable descent. “Hey, calm down. Don’t let it get to you. You have to let it go.”

“That isn’t the kind of thing you can let go,” I argue.

I’ll never forget, never rid myself of seeing her face when I close my eyes, never be free of nightmares of that night. My fingers wrap around my pencil and squeeze it in an effort to vent the raging emotions that are threatening to rupture.

“Zander, it wasn’t your fault.”

A shiver races through me like burning acid. That’s what he thinks. That’s what everyone thinks.

“Hey, man, I was just making a suggestion. Don’t get upset. You’re a good guy. It would just be nice to see you with a smile on your face once in a while. You’ve been through a lot. You could use some good in your life,” Mr. Dalton says.